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  The Sleuth cast his eyes up and down the back street. Spying no lookouts, he entered through the sham-blockade and pulled the doors quietly closed behind him to maintain the illusion.

  He descended the creaking stairs into a basement crowded with boilers, furnaces, and water pumps. The spaces between these dusty, rusting machines were filled with crates and stuffed sacks that were piled up like sandbags against a flood. Out of the corner of his eye, the Sleuth spied a movement off to his right. With soft footsteps, he proceeded to investigate.

  A gray skull lunged out from behind a crate, surrounded by a mass of golden-brown fur. It screeched at him with sudden ferocity, and instinct forced him to step back. Before he could suppress this basic human urge, strong arms emerged beneath his own arms and reached up to his neck in a submission hold. Grunting in exertion, he struggled to break free, but failed. Unable to extricate himself, the Sleuth heard urgent voices behind him babbling in what he assumed was some Chinese dialect. There was a burst of pain on the crown of his head, and everything went black.

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  The Sleuth awoke with a throbbing head. He wanted to rub the pain away and found his wrists tied to the arms of the chair he was sitting in. His ankles were likewise secured to the chair legs. A quick look around revealed that his chair was in a cement-lined depression—not unlike a swimming pool—with a drain in the center of the floor and a pair of pipes that stretched up to the ceiling high overhead. A set of narrow stairs led to an open walkway that surrounded the pit, but there were no other features.

  A stern-faced Chinaman stood over him, with appraising eyes and a bottle of smelling salts in hand. Satisfied with what he saw, the Chinaman corked the salts, folded his arms into the sleeves of his black robes and called up to the walkway above.

  Another Chinaman stepped up to the brink and looked down into the pit with hard eyes. Unlike his fellows, he wore a voluminous yellow robe that was covered with an intricate Oriental design in crimson thread. He had fat cheeks and a babyish face behind a long black mustache and a tall forehead that stretched up to his bald cranium.

  The man in the yellow robe descended the steps and approached the Sleuth as the Chinaman in black bowed and backed away in reverence. The man in yellow regarded the Sleuth in silent contemplation for a long moment. Then, at last, he spoke. “Good evening.” His voice was nasal, his tone curt. “When my servants first informed me of a trespasser, the news was not so engaging. However, once they described you, my interest piqued.”

  The Sleuth frowned up at him. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Lao Shiang,” the newcomer replied. “Sometimes I am called ‘The Dragon’s Claw’. You may or may not have heard of me.”

  “I’m sorry, no,” the Sleuth admitted.

  Lao Shiang smiled. “Fear not, I am not offended. Indeed, I strive very hard to remain anonymous and unknown in my endeavors. However, very little occurs amid the local criminal underworld without coming to my attention, hence my interest in you.”

  The Sleuth looked up sharply from his bonds. “What do you mean?”

  “I deduce that you are this mysterious Sleuth whom I have heard about,” Lao Shiang hypothesized aloud. “You have been connected to various crimes—many thwarted, and many that were successful. Yet you have never been apprehended, and I daresay that few can give a reliable report about you. You come and go like a phantom. Yes, I believe you are the Sleuth. Tell me please, am I correct?”

  The Sleuth’s eyes wandered about the dimly lit basin as he considered his answer. “Yes, I suppose you are.”

  Lao Shiang clapped his hands together in triumph. “I have wondered for some time now whether or not you truly exist!” he laughed. “The thought has occurred to me that you were merely an invention for the purpose of propaganda. Either invented by the authorities in a vain effort to dissuade criminal enterprise, or by the criminal element as a red herring to confound police.

  “But instead you are real!” the Chinaman marveled. “If half of what I have heard of you is truth, then you are a most extraordinary person! It is an honor to meet you at long last!” He offered a deep, respectful bow.

  “Funny way to show it,” the Sleuth replied, tugging at the ropes that held him secured to the chair.

  “I apologize for the necessary precaution,” Lao Shiang stated, his tone devoid of emotion. “I have heard conflicting reports about your personal disposition. Although Commissioner Wayland publicly denies your existence, it is rumored that he has a secret file about you, and regards you a great criminal threat. Contrariwise, other rumors insist that you were instrumental in the downfall of countless criminals. So, you see, I have yet to determine whether or not I can trust you. Exactly whose side are you on?”

  “I am on the side of justice,” the Sleuth said in a defiant voice.

  Lao Shiang sneered. “An unsatisfactory response, for justice is highly subjective. Its definition depends greatly on one’s point-of-view. What purpose has brought you here to the Jade Lotus?”

  “I have come to retrieve the pendant of Mo Tzu and return it to Montgomery Fisk, the rightful owner,” the Sleuth declared.

  The man in the yellow robe nodded and let loose a heavy sigh. “That is unfortunate, for it means we are at odds. I had hoped that you could be persuaded to work in accord with my organization?” He looked askance at the Sleuth, who offered a wry smile and shook his head. “A pity. Under different circumstances I suspect we could have worked together quite well. Instead I fear I shall have to kill you.”

  The Sleuth straightened in his seat. “Kill me?”

  “Of course.” Lao Shiang raised his arms and indicated the room around them. “This is a sub-basement beneath the laundry. This vat you are seated in is meant to hold seawater, pumped in from the harbor.” He waved one hand to the pipes that ran from the pit to the ceiling. “It is then meant to be taken up through pipes to the laundry machines on the floors above. But we will only fill this basin, and you will drown as we abandon these premises permanently.”

  The Sleuth shrugged in his restraints. “Why leave? Once I’m dead, I won’t be revealing your hide-out to anyone.”

  “True,” the Chinaman mused. “However, from what little I have heard of your exploits, I deduce you have some organization—whether great or small, I cannot tell—at your disposal. Therefore, I must assume assistance in some form will come to this place in search of you. Only a fool would risk assuming otherwise. I am no fool, so we make haste to depart before your agents may come to your aid.” Lao Shiang turned to the narrow stairs, paused, turned back and advanced on his prisoner. “But first I must satisfy my curiosity. If you will indulge me…”

  Lao Shiang reached out with one hand, pulled the mask up onto the Sleuth’s forehead. The Chinaman gawked for a long moment at the sagging jowls and bulbous nose that Byron Twain hid behind to infiltrate his twin’s hospital room. Lao Shiang grunted thoughtfully and returned the mask to the Sleuth’s eyes. “Your face is not known to me and not at all as I expected.”

  His curiosity sated, Lao Shiang turned on his heel and climbed the stairs. A subtle wave prompted his servant to follow him. The Dragon’s Claw issued orders in his native tongue; the servant bowed and retreated beyond the Sleuth’s limited view. The golden brown monkey scuttled up to Lao Shiang, chortled, held up the ornate box to its master.

  “An interesting animal you have there,” the Sleuth remarked.

  The villain looked down at the simian, smiled, and took the proffered box. “Yes, he is a Sichuan golden hair monkey from the Shaanxi province. He has proven a clever pet, and has learned many useful tricks.”

  The squeal of metal on metal filled the air as a rusty valve was forced open after a long rest. Seawater poured into the pit from some opening behind the Sleuth. In a matter of minutes, the water covered his shoes.

  “I apologize for the mundanity of this death,” the Dragon’s Claw lamented. “I feel an extraordinary man deserves a more worthy demise. Alas, I am presse
d for time. Farewell, O Sleuth, may you go to whatever Heaven suits you best.” Then he turned and walked away, followed by his pet.

  Despite the rising water, the Sleuth smiled. For Byron Twain was an ardent student of escapology, and had studied the secrets of such men as Harry Houdini, John Nevil Maskelyne, and Major Zamora. Having his limbs lashed to a chair by mere ropes was no challenge to him. His nimble fingers worked the knots free long before the water had risen to his knees.

  The Sleuth ascended the stairs, found himself in a subterranean storeroom. A rickety wooden staircase rose to the building above. Crates and barrels were pushed up against one brick-lined wall across the room from a tangle of pipes with a dripping valve-wheel. The chamber was lit by a single lantern that sat on a crate beside an arched tunnel.

  Having heard no creaking complaints from the wooden stair, the Sleuth guessed that the villains had escaped through the shadowy tunnel. With nary a hesitation, he charged down the dark corridor as quietly as his squishing shoes would allow.

  After twenty yards of bricks reinforced with wooden support beams, the tunnel widened into a vast chamber. The Sleuth gawked in astonishment at the wide, lantern-lit dock beside the subterranean canal. Lao Shiang waited on the pier, the monkey at his side, as two of his underlings prepared a small boat for castoff.

  The Sleuth reached for his gun but found it missing. With a sneer curling his lip he charged across the short distance between him and the Chinese ringleader. The golden-haired monkey turned at the sound of squishing footsteps and screeched. The Sleuth brought his fist around and knocked the Dragon’s Claw to the boardwalk as the monkey scurried away, screaming.

  The two Chinese henchmen scrambled to the dock as the Sleuth scooped up the ornate box from Lao Shiang’s hand. The Sleuth stood, threw a haymaker that knocked one goon into the canal. He ran back for the tunnel, pursued by the second Chinaman who was spurred on by Lao Shiang’s wrathful command: “Kill him! And retrieve the pendant!”

  The Sleuth was nearly to the tunnel when arms wrapped about his waist. The tackle threw him and his attacker off their feet. The Sleuth rolled onto his back, saw the Chinese thug springing up from the boards and diving at him again. The masked hero lashed out with both feet, striking the villain in the chest.

  The henchman slammed into the wall beside the tunnel, dislodging a lantern. The oil splattered as the light clattered on the floorboards, setting fire to the dock, and the Chinaman’s changshan. The Sleuth and the thug both jumped to their feet, pulled back their fists to continue the fight. Then the Chinese brute paused, eyes widened. With a shriek of pain he slapped at the flames on his shoulders in futility. Screaming, he ran across the dock and jumped into the canal, even as the other thug pulled himself out of the water.

  Seizing the opportunity, the Sleuth darted into the tunnel as the fire climbed up the heavy support beams at the mouth. He ran for the sub-basement beneath the laundry. Halfway there, a sharp pain erupted on the back of his head. He recoiled in pain, crashed against the left wall. He paused for one deep breath, then urged himself to continue. He looked back to check on his stalker and a fist struck him between his masked eyes. The Sleuth hit the hard bricks again and fell to the tunnel floor, the box tumbling from his feeble hand.

  Groggy, the Sleuth lifted himself up and reached out in a lame attempt to stop the Chinaman from plucking the box from the floor. The thug then uttered some pithy remark in his native tongue, and dripped his way back to the canal.

  Powered by sheer stubbornness and determination, the Sleuth pulled himself to his feet and stumbled down the tunnel in pursuit. The pounding in his head was like a dozen drummers, each beating a different tune on his head. Ahead of him there was a thunderous crash. He looked up, tried to blink away the stars and saw the flaming support beams had fallen along with a heavy rain of brick and dirt.

  As the cloud of concrete dust dissipated, the Sleuth saw one of Lao Shiang’s dripping henchmen, an iron crowbar in hand. Behind him, the Dragon’s Claw stood in the boat with the ornate box in his bony grasp. The Chinese mastermind barked out a curt order and the henchman, scowling at the Sleuth, dropped the crowbar in favor of another lantern. Without pause, the thug threw the new lantern at the debris, adding fuel to the fire, and then turned and rushed to the getaway boat.

  Lao Shiang raised the box as though offering a toast. “I should have guessed that hasty deathtrap would be insufficient for the likes of you.” His underlings scrambled about the boat, preparing for launch. “But in the end, your escape was for naught. In a way, I am disappointed, for I expected better. However, I suppose even the Sleuth must lose once in a while.” Then he slid the lid off the box and gasped in surprise.

  “Looking for this, Lao?”

  The Dragon’s Claw looked at the Sleuth, trapped in the tunnel behind the flaming debris, the pendant of Mo Tzu dangling from his fingers. Growling with lethal wrath, the crime lord looked about the underground dock with beady eyes. In a loud, clear voice Lao Shiang issued a statement in the language of his homeland.

  The Sleuth could only wonder at his words for a fraction of a second. Then a ball of golden brown fury burst through the flames and landed on his chest. The impact threw him to the tunnel floor once more, this time with the sinister skull-faced monkey snarling down at him. The ancient pendant, too, hit the floor and with a pop shattered in two equal halves. Both the Sleuth and the killer monkey looked with curiosity and saw the folded scrap of paper that had been concealed within.

  The monkey recovered first, screeched into the Sleuth’s masked face, then snatched the antique note in its paw. It jumped up to a supporting timber, the Sleuth scrambling after it. The monkey leapt up and grabbed one of the beams on the ceiling. The Sleuth, still dazed, tried to wrap his arms around the furry thief, but failed.

  The monkey jumped through the fiery blockage once more, scampered across the dock, and jumped aboard Lao Shiang’s boat as it was paddled toward the nighttime harbor. The Sleuth watched with disappointed eyes as the Chinese crime lord took the historic note from his pet.

  With a gloatful grin, Lao Shiang held up the note for the Sleuth to see, then eagerly unfolded it. The grin melted from his face and he crumpled the brittle note in one talon-like hand. Fuming, he glanced hither and yon about the subterranean canal as he thought, until his eyes fell upon the Sleuth, still watching intently from the tunnel.

  “For the sake of closure, I shall tell you that I have been thwarted today, though not by you,” said Lao Shiang at last. “Sometime in the long history of the pendant, some other found its secret before me, and in its place he left…” The mastermind cast a hateful glance down at the hand with the crumpled paper. “…a rather surly note. So, alas, my efforts here have born me no fruit. However, if you have truly come for the pendant, then I bid you take it and go.” By now, his unlit boat slipped beyond the light of the lantern-lit dock, vanishing in the darkness of the subterranean canal. “I bear you no ill will, and apologize for your inconveniences. It was interesting to finally meet you, O Sleuth! Who knows? Perhaps we shall meet again in the future, under better circumstances! Farewell!”

  The Sleuth squinted into the shadowy waterway but could no longer see the escaping boat, nor Lao Shiang’s golden robes. With a sigh, he frowned down and snatched the two halves of the pendant from the floor. A cursory examination showed him that the pendant was undamaged. He deduced it was cleverly designed to be hollow, and was meant to open thus. With careful fingers he snapped the two halves together, marveled at the trinket for a moment, then slipped it into a pocket.

  He frowned once more at the waters beyond the fiery dock, and nodded grimly to himself. For he expected to cross paths with the Dragon’s Claw again, he was already planning it, and he did not expect the circumstances to be any better. A gut feeling told him that next time, it would be much worse.

  ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

  Timothy Sayell (Case of the Accursed Amulet) has been published in magazines such as Big Pulp, Flashing Swords, Ray Gun Re
vival, and Abandoned Towers, where he also has a monthly serial and a review column.

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  EMPIRE STATEMENT

  by David S. Briggs

  Eighth wonder, they call me.

  What a depressing number.

  Have they no vision?

  I’ve seen marvels enough to exhaust

  more than my 20 fingers & toes—

  Tyranosaurus Rexes feasting under the embers of sunset,

  Pterodactyls nesting on cliff faces that dwarf the Earth,

  waterfalls so tall they disintegrate to mist.

  I’ve had tribes offer me their finest women

  just to stop my roaring,

  for I have a thing for small, hairless dames

  —really tiny ones.

  Something makes me want to care for them,

  such small, fragile creatures among the beasts

  forever snarling around me (all of whom

  by rights should be extinct).

  And her above all others, intoxicating blonde

  I would follow anywhere.

  I wish to be like her: small as my own hand,

  able to curl beneath her skirt

  to press my lips against her without crushing her.

  Able to sleep in a bed that was made for us.

  Able to slip inside this skyscraper

  instead of scaling it

  like a hunted squirrel, a homeless drifter.

  I’m too big for this land,

  but you drugged me, dragged me here

  without a clue what to do with me.

  So now you’ve got a rampage on your hands.

  I’m the last raging thing between progress

  and the boundless sky

  the last of my kind in a world where all the biggest things

  have been felled.

  And I don’t care what happens anymore.

  I only want to hold her here at the top of all things,